Still
by That Girl55
Summary: To a ghost, every feeling is laced with numbness. For Violet, the line between pain and pleasure is even blurrier than when she was alive. Tate enjoys the fuzziness; feeling less is refreshing for a boy who once felt all the pain in the world. Mainly smut & angst, TatexViolet oneshot.


**Trigger warning:** talks briefly about self-harm and depression.

* * *

 _"Take my soul away from me,_

 _Cause when I see you_

 _You rip my heart out."_

\- Do You Love Me Still?, The Kooks

* * *

It was not beautiful, when it happened.

There was no tearful, black and white movie reunion between the two of them. Their coming together again was not a choice, more of a forced side effect of boredom. Spending eternity confined with another leads you to forgive them at some point anyways, Violet was quickly learning that. Death has a funny way of making you forget things, of making you rethink them. Maybe this was her penance, her reconciliation.

Ben forgave Hayden, it seemed, over time. That or he just forgot about all those things she'd done. There were airs of empathy around every interaction between the ghosts — no one deserved to be here, not even the devil himself.

Ben and Vivian doted over an infant that never seemed to age, Moira scrubbed at stains that never went away, Nora coddled Thaddeus in the basement as her husband endlessly tried to repair the damage, Chad and Patrick continuously argued over who had the better eye for design, and Violet smoked a pack of cigarettes that never emptied. She listened to records that always replayed themselves, and read books she could recite line-by-line. She cut herself. She tried to die again, but it seemed they were already on the lowest level of hell.

She can't say she was surprised.

And Tate kept his distance. His presence was constant in her afterlife, catching his blonde hair out of the corner of her eye, hearing the scuffle of his sneakers as he walked down the hall. You could only occupy a space with someone for so long without running into them.

Their reunion was uneventful, and simple. She was going down the stairs and he was coming up. For the first time in what may have been decades, they saw each other. They locked eyes for a second before Tate angled his head down. Violet wanted to spit at him.

He'd tried to save her, yes, but he'd killed her the moment he made her fall for him in that stupid, obsessive way that teenagers do. They call it "young love" for a reason, and there's nothing else quite as needy and obstinate as it.

Instead of pushing past him, Violet grabs his hand. She wants him to hurt, she wants him to feel what she did. Dragging him to her room — even though it has been redecorated a thousand times over, and been occupied by at least fifty other teenagers, it is still hers — she throws him in the direction of the bed. She peels off her shirt, saturated with sweat from the summer sun, and stares down at him.

"Vi," Tate asks innocently, questioningly.

She hates how young he looks in that moment. She hates that he can manage to do all this to her, to her family, and still look like he's never seen a breast before. She knows he has, too — they'd fucked once, before all of this. I guess back then it could have been called making love, but not now.

Her fingers are not as young nor as gentle as he remembers them being as she adeptly opens his jeans, tears them from his body. Her eyes are not kind, only focused. She wants something, and that something is him.

To a ghost, every feeling is laced with numbness, every physical touch is kind of fuzzy around the edges. For Violet, the line between pain and pleasure is even blurrier than when she was alive. For Tate, he enjoys the fuzziness, feeling less is refreshing for a boy who once felt all the pain in the world.

Violet doesn't touch herself before she climbs on top of him, sliding out of her leggings and slamming herself down on his member. He moans, almost feminine, and she suddenly remembers he hasn't had sex in decades — a long time, even for a ghost.

She wants to get as much out of this as possible. It's a one-time thing, she tells herself, as she digs her nails into his back, pulling the skin up like she's peeling an orange, scratching at him until she reaches his center — until he can feel what she feels.

He doesn't last nearly long enough for her. She pants and rolls away from him, not wanting his touch any longer. It occurs to Tate that, through all of this, they haven't even touched lips. His black is bleeding, leaving red streaks on the sheets of the new owners, and Tate suddenly realizes that she does not want him.

She wants sex. She wants to feel. She wants her life back, the one he took away all those years ago.

They fuck again an hour later, still not kissing, still not gently. Violet is sure she will never love gently again.

Everyone is oblivious to their unexpected reunion, caught up in their own interactions, their own thoughts. It's easy to get into a routine when you're dead. There's nothing new, nothing unexpected, to shake it up.

Except Tate is new, at least to Violet. Scared to upset her again, he doesn't say much, and she almost prefers him that way. Quiet, observing, like when she first moved into Murder House. She laughs, thinking back on it. She thought she was broken then — feeling unwanted and unloved, she begged for death.

If only she knew she didn't have to beg. Death usually doesn't wait to be asked twice.


End file.
